


Heart Made of Nickels

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [20]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 03:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14633202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: You wake up on a Sunday with Steve Rogers beside you, passed out peacefully in your bed. He’s not wearing a clown nose or anything, no party hat, no mask, so you’re probably not dreaming, but also, key note: he’s not wearinganything.





	Heart Made of Nickels

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: It might take a year. It might take longer. But it’s worth the wait.  
> Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).
> 
> This seedling has flowered into an (almost) full-fledged fic: [Don't Do Me Any Favors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14667999/chapters/33886518)

Being in love with your best friend is always a sucker’s bet. But when your best friend is Captain America? You might as well burn your money.

Not to mention that said best friend already has a boyfriend, a paramour, a clinch, and that guy isn’t a jerk or an asshole or a mooch, no; he’s Tony freaking Stark, rich and mostly decent and prone to inappropriate jokes. Also, he’s some kind of professional flying tin man. So there is no way in hell that you’re ever going to say anything about how it is that you feel because you might as well turn your heart into nickels and toss it from the back of a truck: you’ll never get any of it back.

Except then you wake up on a Sunday with Steve Rogers beside you, passed out peacefully in your bed. He’s not wearing a clown nose or anything, no party hat, no mask, so you’re probably not dreaming, but also, key note: he’s not wearing  _ anything _ .

Oh shit.

How do you know that?

Ah. Because you’re naked, too, and you’re spooned up behind him, your metal arm draped over his hip like it’s nothing. His head’s tipped back against your shoulder and he’s holding your hand, his fingers entwined with yours, and the rest of him may be asleep, but his grip ain’t sleepy at all.

Your cheek’s against his temple and he’s warm, like a stove left on all night. He smells like sweat and good whiskey, like sex and that cologne Tony bought him for Christmas and what in the seven fucking hells is he doing in your bed? He should be upstairs starfished in his own ridiculous bed, a feather-topped fourposter that Tony likes to make inappropriate comments about at team meetings and if things were different, that might make you worry, how ready Tony is sometimes to get Steve to blush, but no matter how red in the face Stevie gets or how hard he glares at Tony for pulling that shit when they’re supposed to be talking about space robots from Mars or something, he always reaches out, too; squeezes Tony’s knee or nips at his shoulder or rubs a big hand over Tony’s thigh, just a touch, just enough that you know there’s no harm done, none that can’t be worked out with the lights off, in the sky blue gossamer fucking sheets that Tony won’t shut up about.

But your bed is nothing like that. It’s just big enough for you and the sheets are just cotton and there’s no one post, much less four. It’s a step up from the bedroll you insisted on sleeping on when Steve first brought you here, introduced you to the compound by saying: “This is home.” You weren’t ready for it, to be around people all day, to have so much freedom. To sleep in such a comfortable bed. So you’d said something to Steve under duress--he can always tell when something’s bothering you, just like when you were kids--and maybe a twisted arm and you’d come back from dinner one night to find the first big fluffy bed gone and a neat, Army-issue bedroll in its place.

You slept better than you had in years. Since you kipped down in a tent in some dark Italian forest with Steve an arm’s length away, snoring the same dumb little snore he’d had since he was five. You’d woken up with a smile on your face and a sense, the very first one, that maybe this whole being back from dead thing was gonna work out all right.

Except now you’re flesh to flesh with him, Steve, and he’s awake enough to turn his head and find your cheek, to kiss it, to whisper your name through a grin big enough to reach Brooklyn, to murmur: “Mornin’ Buck. How’d you sleep?”


End file.
